


Renegade

by spirrum



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Canon Divergence, F/M, in which things happen a little differently
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-05
Updated: 2015-09-13
Packaged: 2018-04-19 04:46:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4733252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spirrum/pseuds/spirrum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A reluctant Herald runs from her duties, but there are some things you just can't escape, when the Dread Wolf's caught your scent.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A little canon divergence for you, because during my playthrough my Inquisitor took her responsibility in stride, but then I thought "what if she hadn't?"

She wakes to a pounding headache, a pressure between her brows that only worsens when she opens her eyes. The room’s light is dim but the onslaught drags a groan from deep in her throat, a parched, dry croak that makes her wonder how long she’s been out.

She tries to sit up, her whole body protesting against the motion, but she can’t remember what she’d done to put herself in such a state. Creators, did she take a tumble off a cliff? But there are no bruises or broken bones, and it’s with some effort Ellana manages to push herself up.

The door clatters against the frame, and the gasp that escapes into the quiet draws her eyes to her visitor, in time to see them drop what they’re carrying in surprise.

“I didn’t know you were awake, I swear!”

Her thoughts are sluggish, slow in dragging across her mind and through the confusion that clouds it. A glance about the room yields no answers _. A cabin?_

“Is this another prison?” No shackles digging into her wrists, but a soft mattress beneath her. No cold, unyielding stone, but the pale warmth of the candlelight.

The elven girl stutters. “I…no?” I mean, I don’t think so.”

The lack of answers tries her surprisingly thin patience, making her voice hard when she snaps, “Then where am I?”

Her intention had not been to scare the poor girl out of her wits, but she falls to her knees as though she’d threatened to physically strike her. “I beg your forgiveness, and your blessing. I am but a humble servant.” A pause, and Ellana wonders if that’s all she’s going to get, when the girl adds, “You are back in Haven, my lady.”

Words race through her mind as she struggles to push herself towards the edge of the bed. Haven. Forgiveness. Blessing?

_My lady?_

The servant is still talking, with something like reverence in the gentle lift of their head. “They say you saved us. The Breach stopped growing. Just like the mark on your hand. It’s all anyone’s talked about for the last three days.”

She turns her eyes to her hand, sitting in her lap. It’s there when she uncurls her fingers, the slit across her palm, glowing softly. An eerie, foreign sight.

She tries not to make it sound like a question, when she asks, “Then the danger is over.”

And though it’s the answer she expects, it’s not the one she’d hoped for. “The Breach is still in the sky, but that’s what they say.” Pushing to her feet, the servant takes a step back, as though afraid she might suddenly pounce. “I’m certain Lady Cassandra would want to know you’ve awakened. She said ‘at once.’”

She hears the words – hears the servant pick up her feet, and the door rattling against the hinges before it swings shut. But she has trouble thinking past the offhand declaration that seems to have rooted itself in her mind.

_The Breach is still in the sky._

Something like panic swells in her chest. The rift – she remembers the rift. A hand clamped around her wrist, thrusting it upwards, steady and sure even when her own knees shook from the strain. And then the one at the ruined temple, that yawning gap like a great maw, ready to swallow her whole. The effort to keep herself standing had been beyond anything she’d ever known. It had pulled at her hand, her whole body, and she’d thought  _this is it, this will take everything I have, there’ll be nothing left._ She’d survived, but she hadn’t succeeded. The Breach had stopped growing, settling like calm waters but hiding deadly currents. It’s still there; still her responsibility.

And suddenly it’s too much, the knowledge of what she must do – what she now  _is_ , to these people, if the servant’s reaction was any indication – and the weight of it settling on her shoulders makes her want to throw up.

They haven’t shackled her. A sign of trust, perhaps, or faith in that she’d wake and accept what they’ve put at her feet. And the realization strikes her then, that the servant has likely gone to alert the Seeker, and desperation kicks her tired limbs into moving, pushing her off the bed. Her left arm feels like she’s tried to lift a great weight, muscles contracting to pull a hiss from between her clenched teeth.

She has to leave.

The cabin is quiet and her fingers are quick, rifling through drawers and chests. She finds a stack of healer’s notes and her coat, folded up on top of her boots, and she skims over the first while dressing in a hurry, fingers stiff and trembling against the buckles. She remembers the words of the servant. Three days.  _She’s been out three days._

Most of her gear is missing, but the coat and boots will have to do. A knife used for cutting herbs is stuffed into her boot, while the available salves and poultices find their way into empty pockets. Not enough to last her long, but if she can manage to stay out of trouble, hopefully enough to get her to the nearest village to restock.

A nagging at the back of her mind deems it fit to remind her of what she’s doing – that she’s running when she’s needed. The apostate, Solas – he’d said the mark on her hand was the answer to closing the rifts.  _The key to our salvation,_ he’d called it.

But she’s no saviour, Ellana knows. No salvation lies in her hands. She hadn’t been able to close the Breach, only halt it, and what good is that in the long run? A temporary fix, if anything. And when they realize how useless she truly is, who will be blamed for her shortcomings but herself? She’ll be lucky if they don’t execute her on the spot.

Everything hurts, her arms straining against her movements, but she pulls herself onto the window ledge, forcing her breath through her nose. There might be guards stationed, but from her vantage point she can’t spot any. Another show of trust, and guilt burns in her chest as she hoists herself through the window.

Her landing is muffled by the snow, and she tries to ignore the cold creeping through her coat. If she’d had all her gear she wouldn't have a problem, but with how the servant had reacted at the sight of her, she doesn’t dare brave the village itself to look for warmer clothes. No – if she’s to slip away without anyone’s notice, there’s only one way to go.

And so, with her eyes set on the forest and Haven’s beckoning warmth behind her, Ellana Lavellan picks up her feet and runs.

 

* * *

 

“Keep going south, and you’ll find the King’s Road. But I’d watch my back if I were you, lass. There’s rogue apostates on the road. Right now this region’s not safe for travellers.”

The warning is accompanied by a searching look, as though he’s not entirely certain he should trust her to not be one of said apostates. But she carries no visible weapon, and despite her somewhat dishevelled appearance, Ellana hopes she doesn’t look desperate enough to draw the notice of the templars.

_Except you are desperate, and if they catch you they won’t stop to ask why._

“Thank you,” she offers, and tries for a smile that feels so forced she thinks it might look more like a grimace. But the merchant only nods, and when he trudges up the dirt road, he doesn’t look back.

She glances down the way he’d come, towards the bottom of the slope, where the sparse dotting of trees grows thicker. Better to hide in than the snow-covered forest climbing the steep rise of the Frostbacks. And she knows how to cover her tracks, should they send people looking. As they most likely have.

Two days since she’d left Haven, most of which she’s spent on her feet, moving. The thought of the Seeker on her heels, her Maker’s wrath a fire in her eyes, had spurred her on, and made her vow to keep going until the snow gave way to greener things. It had meant travelling through the night, but the fear of what lay behind her had outweighed the fear of whatever might await between the trees, and so she’d pushed onwards, keenly aware of her solitude and that making camp and settling down to rest could easily cost her whatever head start she’d won herself.

But she’s made it far enough to escape the snow, at least, and from the word of the merchant she’d hailed she’s not far from a settlement. And when she begins to make her way down the slope, Ellana allows herself to slow her pace to a walk, one that doesn’t include the constant strain of being constantly prepared to take off at a run with every branch snapping. Still, she’s bone-tired and half-asleep on her feet when she stumbles out of the tree-line some hours later, to find smoke rising towards the sky in the distance.

Relief surges like new energy, urging her on, but she’s only made it a few steps when the breeze carries a voice towards her.

“Please – please help!”

Her suspicion is immediate, and makes her fingers twitch towards her boot. Dalish elves know well the ploys of bandits, luring well-meaning travellers off their route, to rob them blind. But there is genuine pain in the plea, and if it’s an act it’s a damn good one.

Her instincts are proven wrong a moment later when she spots the owner of the voice by the path, holding onto what is clearly a broken leg.

She tucks the knife back into her boot, and despite her exhaustion her feet are quick to cross the distance between them, until she’s kneeling beside him. “What happened?”

Either his pain is too great for him to notice her ears, or he just doesn’t care. “Hunting,” he forces the word out. “Got my leg stuck up in the hills. Managed to crawl here, but I-I can’t – Oh,  _Maker_.”

It’s a bad break. And she has no potion or poultice to offer for that kind of injury, the ones in her pockets paltry comforts, meant for headaches and sore muscles. And with only limited training in the healing craft, her magic is of little help, save to perhaps numb the pain. But then there’s the matter of having to reveal that she’s a mage – an apostate. And if things are truly as bad as she’d been told, it might soon be her life on the line.

By some grace of the Creators, her indecision goes unnoticed. Or perhaps he simply thinks she’s contemplating how to help him, not whether or not to take off running.

“The Crossroads,” the hunter grits out. “It’s not far. If you help me I’ll–” A groan swallows his words. “I’ve got coin, if that’s what you want. But I need a healer, my leg – I can’t hunt without my leg. And we need – we need food.  _Please_.”

Ellana spares a glance towards the Frostbacks, rising tall and imposing in the distance. Somewhere in that direction lies Haven, and the fate she’d run from, with her coward’s heart. If they’ve sent someone after her, every second she lingers is in their favour.

But she remembers an old friend from her clan, who’d gotten his leg stuck in a rusted bear trap when she was young. He’d been a hunter, too. Had been, before the infection took his leg. He’d never been the same. And human or elf, the pain on the stranger’s face is hauntingly familiar, and it’s what pulls the words from her mouth, the decision made by her heart long before her mind has caught up.

“I’ll help you.”

He means to thank her, but the words are lost, made indiscernible by the pain as she bends to help him stand.

Moving is difficult, the gap between their heights complicating things to the point where she’s certain she’s undertaken a task beyond her capabilities. But she grits her teeth and bears his weight, down the winding path towards the trail of smoke, a grey column against the steadily darkening sky. They have to stop at steady intervals for Ellana to catch her breath, and she tries not to think about Haven’s ever-looming presence at her back.

The sight of the Crossroads greets them when the roses of late dusk have bled dark with evening’s colours, a tumult of refugees, soldiers and Chantry Sisters, and she draws some comfort from the thought that if anything, it would be easy to shake off pursuers in the chaos.

She steers them towards where a number of cots have been set up, and a pair of white-and-red clad Sisters are tending to the wounded. Their approach is first noticed by an older woman, lifting dark eyes to regard them, before murmuring to a waiting man to assist. He wears the robes of a Circle mage, and wordlessly bends beneath the injured hunter’s free arm. The relief from the weight lifted off her shoulder nearly topples her, and though she’s aware that it’s not in her best interest to linger, the mere thought of moving makes her want to curl up.

“Maker bless you, child, for your kindness,” come the quiet words, the voice calm and soothing. The ground is hard beneath her knees when she sinks down, and she can only manage a nod, too tired to speak.

“You are of the Dalish, yes?”

The remark makes her eyes lift with surprise, to find the woman regarding her with a curious look. Curious, but not unkind. “Your markings,” she elaborates, when Ellana has not spoken, reading her silence as confusion. It’s unexpected. Most humans can’t tell the difference. “You are not with your clan?”

“I’m–” But the thought strikes her then, that they may have sent word ahead about her escape – that they’re looking for a Dalish mage on the run, possibly the culprit behind the explosion at the Conclave – and panic forces an impulsive lie off her tongue. “I’m from the Circle.”

Brows raise. Ellana can’t tell if the Sister believes her or not, and is considering taking off at a run when the woman asks, “A Dalish Circle mage? Interesting.”

Creators, but she’s never been a good liar, but she’d pray to Fen’Harel himself if it would keep the Sister from sending word to the Haven Chantry. “I was taken in when I was young. My clan, ah – they’d abandoned me. I spent my life in the Circle, before – before the uprising.” Not a far-fetched lie, but a lie nonetheless. Ears burning, she’s contemplating just how far she’ll make it if she bolts–

The woman’s eyes soften. “It saddens me to hear that. But our adversities are sometimes beyond our understanding. Your presence today was fortuitous.”

There’s a protest on her tongue, but she swallows it. This is not the time to spark a debate about providence, least of all with a human Chantry Sister.

“I am Mother Giselle,” she introduces then, with that same, almost eerie calm, and correcting Ellana’s assumption about her position. And she doesn’t ask for her name in return, but it’s an implied courtesy. She could lie, of course, or claim her reluctance on giving out her identity on fear of discovery by the templars. The lie would work well with the one she’s already begun spinning.  _Dread Wolf take me._

But the woman’s unprompted kindness, despite her ears and the fact that she’s just revealed herself to be an apostate, makes her falter. And she never did tell anyone her name in Haven.

“Ellana,” she says at length, and wonders if she’s making a mistake.

But, “Ellana,” Mother Giselle repeats, with a small smile. “Your journey has not been easy, I can see it in your eyes. But still you offered aid when it was needed, though you could have turned your back. There is grace to be found, even in this broken world.”

 _You offered aid when it was needed_. And the words burn like shame, pushing up her throat, but she clamps her teeth shut to keep from blurting out the truth about her cowardice.

Mother Giselle kneels then, and a hand comes to rest on her shoulder, the first touch that has fallen with kindness since before the Conclave. Not like the Seeker’s rough handling, or the hand gripping hers, to thrust it towards the rift.

“Rest, child. You have earned a moment’s peace from your running.” A smile. “You are safe here.”

 _Safe,_ she thinks, but doesn’t feel it in the least. Because the thought of what she’s running from leaves no room in her heart for peace.

 

* * *

 

They give her a hot meal and a cot, though there are few to go around, and when night settles she lies awake, wondering when they will find her.

She thinks about the Breach, quiet now but in the sky still. It follows at her heels, her every thought, gnawing at her conscience, and she wonders if she isn’t better off turning herself in; to give herself up and allow them to use her, for whatever they intend to do.

But then she remembers the voice – the one she’d heard at the temple. It slithers around her ear like the caress of a knife’s edge, and in it sits the promise of a death that is anything but quick. If death is what awaits her, and not something worse. Whatever the plans of the people in Haven, there are darker things brewing. Things beyond her understanding, that she wants nothing to do with.

She looks at her hand, gloved and covered, the mark hidden, but even if she can’t see it she can  _feel_  it. And what’s worse, it feels like a part of her, as natural as one of her own limbs, and it’s this thought that makes her rise from the cot. If only it had felt like an anomaly, perhaps her guilt would be easier to live with. Perhaps she’d feel more justified in running.

Picking her way between the sleeping refugees, she offers a quiet apology to the night and Mother Giselle, before setting her sights on the path curving up between the hills in the distance, between houses and tents.

She’s gone before dawn comes.

 

* * *

 

Despite having put quite a bit of distance between herself and Haven, however, the journey onwards does not get any easier, and she hasn’t slept in two days when she stops at a signpost pointing in the direction of Redcliffe.

The thought of a village, a bowl of hot stew and somewhere to sleep, undisturbed, beckons with gentle fingers. Her last meal had been at the Crossroads, well over a day ago now. She’d found some berries, but precious little else. With only a knife for hunting and barely enough strength to keep walking, her stomach is tearing itself apart with hunger.

But a village also means people. People who might be looking for her.

She’s contemplating which direction to go, when she catches sight of something at the corner of her eye – a spark of green that cannot be anything else, reaching towards her from the copse of trees across the river.

“ _Shit_.”

Fingers curling towards her palm, she feels the tug – like a tether pulling, even when her good sense screams at her to run in the opposite direction. But she’d seen the demons at the temple; heard their laughter in her sleep. The Crossroads lies, miles behind her now, but there are farms in the area. Rebel mages hiding from the templars. Innocent people going about their lives. What would happen if she just let it be?

The answer is a dark thought, and an oath tears free of her lips as she makes to cross the river, unmindful of the water sloshing into her boots. The rift sparks and hisses, growing at once bigger and smaller, but it feels impossibly large where it sits above the small clearing.

She comes to a stop some paces away, out of sight of the two wraiths that linger below the pulsating tear. The knife is useless now, but she draws on her magic, pulls and pulls until sparks are jumping between her fingertips.

As expected, the sound draws the attention of the wraiths.

“Oh, I am so going to regret this.”

Without further thought, she launches herself through the trees, hand raised with a cry that rises from deep in her gut as lightning shoots from her open palm. It branches, stunning the wraiths, and long enough to prepare for a second attack.

 _Mythal guide me._ Pulling, she draws another fork of lightning from the clear blue sky, feeling the tremor that shoots through the earth underfoot as it cleaves straight through one of the wraiths. The next is quick to follow, dissolving with a wordless cry, only to be absorbed back into the rift.

 _Now!_  Ellana sucks in a breath. Heart in her throat, she tries to remember what she’d done earlier, ripping her glove off to thrust her hand, mark bared, towards the rift. At once a thread of green jumps towards it, and now she’s the one being dragged forward, but she digs her heels into the ground and with another oath,  _yanks_  with all her might.

A violent burst of magic nearly knocks her off her feet, but the rift doesn’t close. And with her ragged breath forcing itself past her parched lips, Ellana knows what’s coming even before the demons materialize, passing through the torn veil and into the clearing, surrounding her.

_Shit!_

One makes to lunge towards her, and she’s barely quick enough to throw herself back, its claws a hairsbreadth from rending her face. Landing on her side, she rolls out of the way, and she’s drawing on every last reserve of magic now as she lets a stream of lightning leap from her hands. It staggers one of the demons, but doesn’t kill it, and there are too many to keep track of, let alone defeat on her own, with dwindling magic reserves and no lyrium potion at hand or staff to channel her attacks. And if the rift stays open, only more will keep pouring through.

The ground trembles beneath her feet, and she isn’t given time to so much as react before one of the demons comes surging up from below, to swipe her clean off her feet. She lands on her back a few paces away, the air knocked out of her lungs and head spinning from the impact.

Her next breath hurts like a stab, and she knows it’s over.

A  _shriek_  tears through the clearing then, along with a wall of cold air that shoves against her, and she feels the climb of frost along her legs and arms. Then an actual, physical wall of ice follows, jutting from the ground just above her head, to trap the demons from scattering.

Blood is pounding in her ears but she thanks her luck – it seems that one good thing about travelling through territory occupied by rebel mages is that there is no shortage of magical assistance. Someone has come to her aid, and she’s tempted to ask if they’ve got a potion to spare, when her saviour cuts her off.

“Close the rift!” a voice calls, and she doesn’t have time to question how they would even know her capable of doing such a thing. Instead she pushes to her feet, hand raised and fingers splayed, defiance burning in every bone in her body as she throws the last ounce of her remaining strength towards the rift.

There’s a surge that feels like it’s about to tear her whole arm clean off, and the blast that follows this attempt brings her to her knees, but she feels the release – the rift closing up, and the connection with the mark snapping like a strung wire. Her hand burns and she’s heaving, sweat dripping from her brow into her eyes, making them sting. Around her the clearing lies, quiet and covered in unnatural frost. She thinks she might have felt a chill, if she didn’t feel like she was burning up from within.

Footfalls behind her then, drawing her eyes, but when she turns her head whatever she’d been about to say flees her mind.

“You looked like you could use a hand.” And she can’t tell if the joke is intended or not, but she doesn’t have the mind to linger on the question.

“ _You_ ,” she says, ragged breath tearing the word asunder.

A smile curves below clever grey eyes. The lingering spark of his magic dwindles like a sigh, rustling the frost-dusted leaves, and despite the battle and the demon blood seeping through his wool coat, Solas regards her with a calm that borders on unnerving. And despite the fact that she’s certain he’s come to drag her back to Haven, to make her answer for leaving, for running away from her duty, there’s no anger on his face. Only a small, patiently amused smile.

“Hello.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you're enjoying it so far!

"What do you mean she's _gone_?"

The words cleave through the quiet, halting the reverent whispers that have lingered on the air since their return from the temple ruins. It draws him from his quiet contemplation; drags his gaze across the village, to where a crowd of onlookers has gathered.

A quizzical look in Varric’s direction only earns him a shrug, but the dwarf falls into step beside him as Solas makes for the cabin where the Seeker has been keeping their prisoner-turned-saviour. The one the village is now calling  _Herald_. The Seeker herself is standing by the doorway, shoulders tenser than ever and a storm brewing in the hard lines of her face. Before her, a skittish elven girl he’s seen flitting across the village looks like she’s trying to melt into the scenery.

“I – she was just here! I checked on her not two hours ago. She was awake and everything! I said you wanted to see her, ‘at once!’ like you said, but when she didn’t come I went to check, and she was–”

“Gone,” Leliana clarifies, emerging from the cabin. “Her clothes are missing,” the spymaster declares, coolly despite her companion’s growing ire. “There are footprints in the snow behind the cabin, heading towards the forest. It would seem she climbed out the window.”

Cassandra looks torn between confusion and outright fury. “But –  _why_? After everything, why would she run?”

They are starting to attract something of a crowd. “Cassandra,” Solas says. “It would perhaps be wise to take this conversation elsewhere.”

The Seeker expels a sharp breath, the sort that speaks of a rapidly thinning patience, although it’s unclear just who is currently the focus of her anger. She wears the tension in her shoulders like a shield; adapting rather than dealing with the stress. An admirable effort, if somewhat unhealthy.

“The Chantry, then.” She makes to cut past them, brusque footsteps kicking up the freshly fallen snow. “You too, Varric.”

“You’re not going to blame this on me too, Seeker?”

“Ugh! Just – come!”

The invitation has not been extended to himself, Solas knows, but moves to follow regardless, sparing a last glance at the empty cabin and the people gathered by the door. Murmurs rise, tinged with worry. The same people who’d condemned her guilty now flock to seek her aid, but had forgotten to take into account that she might not be so willing to extend the hand they’d so quickly slapped in shackles. With humans’ rather notorious treatment of their religious figureheads in the past, expecting her to stay put was something of an oversight. It would not be remiss of her to think the pyre awaited.

Still, this is a turn of events even he did not expect.

 

* * *

 

Inside the Chantry, bickering erupts almost immediately after the door slams shut.

“We need to find her.  _Now_.”

“We can’t just send valued soldiers off into the forest just because your alleged  _Herald_  didn’t turn out to be who you thought, Seeker,” Chancellor Roderick counters.

Cassandra’s expression borders on murderous. “Without her we have no chance of closing the Breach! And you’d have me leave her, floundering about in the wilderness?”

“I would have you send her to the capital for trial. She probably ran because she knows she’s guilty.” The Chancellor crosses his arms. “If she was truly as innocent as you believe, she would not have run at the first opportunity!”

“I heard the voices in the temple,” Cassandra argues. “The Divine called to her for help!” But even as she speaks the words, a flicker of doubt crosses her face, but she buries it before it has time to settle. “Perhaps…perhaps she does not know what she’s doing – perhaps she does not remember where she is.  _Who_  she is–”

“She scavenged the cabin for supplies. She knew what she was doing, at least,” Leliana adds, quietly though perhaps not helpfully.

“Maybe she wasn’t too keen on having all this responsibility shoved on her. I know someone like that,” Varric quips, entirely unhelpfully, and with a meaningful look at Cassandra.

“Do  _not_  make this about Hawke, it is not the same–”

“It’s exactly the same! You need someone to lay all your problems on, and when they don’t want to play along, you hunt them down. Honestly I’m not surprised she ran off–”

“You were at the temple! You saw what she did to the rift. Without her–”

“Without her, panic will spread. It is inevitable, but perhaps we can contain the chaos until we can find her.” It’s the Antivan ambassador who speaks, the one who’d politely but insistently inquired about everything from his birthplace to his favourite meal when Solas last found himself in her company. The calm announcement succeeds in stemming the bickering, if only for the time being.

“We cannot afford the men,” the Chancellor repeats, with a deliberate glance in Cassandra’s direction.

“And we cannot afford to lose her,” the Seeker grinds out. Another fruitlessly circular argument is imminent. An opportune time to speak up.

“I will find her.”

The calm declaration succeeds in drawing the eyes of the room. The Seeker turns towards him, surprised at his offering, but it bleeds so quickly into suspicion Solas is half-tempted to ask if she thinks he’ll run off, along with their reluctant Herald.

“ _You_?”

It’s pointless to reiterate, and so he only nods. Let them imagine his reasons for themselves. If pressed, he has enough truths to offer. But with the desperation that permeates the room, it’s unlikely they would question his motives further than his desire to see the Breach closed.

“I say we let him,” the Nightingale says then, pragmatic as always. “I could send scouts to look for her, but no one has studied the mark as thoroughly as Solas. Who knows what state she will be in when we find her?”

Cassandra huffs. “I still think it’s necessary to send more than just one mage–”

“Because I am just one person, or because I am a mage?”

The Seeker purses her lips, and he’d be lying if he said he didn’t find the sight somewhat gratifying. But her obstinacy is commendable, even if it mostly works against his favour. “As you like to point out, Cassandra, I am an apostate. I have not avoided capture simply through luck. I know something about covering one’s tracks. And if you wish to find her without drawing undue attention, surely  _one mage_  will not stick out, among the number currently found in this region?”

His logic is sound, and her face is expressive enough to tell him that his words have hit their mark. For all her scalding temper she’s not an unreasonable woman.

And so, “ _Fine_. But you will inform us the moment you find her. And if she is not in a state fit to travel, you will–”

“I also know healing magic,” he supplies, a little dryly. “I am certain it will be enough.”

“Then the matter is settled,” Josephine says. “For now, let us keep this under wraps. I will stem the rumours, any way I can.”

“And I will catch the ones you don’t,” Leliana adds. “Discretely, of course.”

Varric surveys the room with a frown. “So, what do the rest of us do in the mean time? Kick back and hope the sky doesn’t open up again?”

Spymaster and Seeker share a look, and one that does not go unnoticed. Solas has picked up on the fact that there are more things happening under the Chantry’s roof than sermons. The soldiers training beyond the walls and the fortifications are proof enough that something is in the making, but whatever their plans, they appear loath to share them.

Of course, he is no position to point fingers.

“Someone needs to inform Commander Cullen of our – predicament,” Cassandra says then. “This certainly complicates things. And Solas,” she adds, turning towards him. “You leave within the hour. Hopefully she will not have gotten far.”

“Seeker–”

“Not now, Chancellor,” she snaps, the dismissal punctuated by the turn of her back.

Knowing any further words will most likely be responded to in a similar fashion, Solas makes to leave, but hasn’t taken two steps before Cassandra grasps his arm. “Find her quickly, Solas. With the state of the world, her absence is not something we can afford.”

He offers his assurance with a smile, though she’s not a woman easily persuaded by promises. She’ll likely be suspicious until he’s back where he’s standing, their wayward Herald in tow. “You have my word, Seeker.”

To his surprise, she only snorts, and offers a lingering glance at Varric’s departing back.

“I pray for your sake it is not one I have heard before.”  

 

* * *

 

They give him a mount, to better brave the slopes of the Frostbacks. A tired, ragged-looking creature, but it snorts fondly into his palm and heeds his commands without protest. And where he’d usually prefer his own two feet, time is of the essence, lest they lose her in the wilderness. Leliana’s scouts had tracked her footsteps to the edge of the forest, before coming back with news that they’d lost the trail. Solas isn’t surprised. A Dalish raised hunter, she’d know how to cover her tracks, but with the state she must have been in after waking, it’s something of an impressive feat. But the scouts’ consensus had been that she’d likely keep off the Imperial Highway. With the chaos reigning in Ferelden at present, it’s not unlikely that she’d try to lose eventual pursuers in the vastness of the Hinterlands.

She would perhaps succeed, Solas suspects, if the ones looking were indeed only scouts. But the fate she’s running from dooms her, though she might not realize it herself. The mark leaves its own tracks, residual traces of magic that clings to the Veil, and it’s these that he follows, down the steep slopes and away from the cold grip of the mountain air. The further away she gets, the sloppier she becomes with her physical tracks, no doubt due to exhaustion. By how far she’s managed to run, she has rested little. A dangerous omission for someone already in a precarious state, but desperation will make fools out of most.

At last he makes it to a settlement, teeming with refugees. An unfortunate centre of the mage rebellion, the casualties of which are scattered about on any available surface, cot and ground alike. A trace of her remains, stronger here than anywhere else. She must have lingered. 

Dismounting, Solas makes to offer the horse to one of the soldiers. “A contribution to your effort,” he explains, dropping the reins into the soldier’s hands. Better the creature pull carts of food and blankets, than trudge across the hills until its dying breath. And with its current condition, his own two feet will no doubt serve him better.

With a last pat to the creature’s muzzle, he makes to turn, only to find a woman clad in Chantry robes regarding him curiously.

“A strange gift, for a traveller,” she says, with a glance at the horse, being led away by the solider through the crowd. “Dearly welcome, but it makes me wonder. You do not look like you are planning to stay.”

He offers a smile. “It has served its purpose. And I prefer to walk.”

The woman nods, a gentle bow of her head. He’s surprised to find honest gratitude, when all that he’s given is an over-tired mount. “Then I thank you, and wish you safe passage.”

Solas returns the nod, and is about to leave when something – a hunch – makes him ask, “Has an elf passed through this area?”

Something flickers in her eyes that tells him he’s asked the right thing. And the right person. But, “Many of your people have passed through. Is there anyone in particular you are looking for?”

He tries not to bristle at the casual use of ‘your people’, and tries instead to focus on the wariness with which she considers him now. It’s almost distrust, but the carefully contained sort of the truly pious, those more reluctant to jump to conclusions than most over-zealous Chantry supporters.

“She wears Dalish markings, but she does not travel with a clan. There is a scar under her nose, by her lip. It is hard to miss.” He doesn’t know why the latter description feels oddly – intimate. He’d sat by her sleeping form long enough to form a clear image of her face, the arch of her brows above her closed eyes and the freckles across her cheeks. He can’t conjure the exact colour of her eyes, but he remembers her hair, the colour sharp against the memory of the snow and the mountain cold.

If she thinks the same, the woman does not let on, but her wariness lingers. It strikes him that she must know he’s looking for a runaway, though she might not know why. Solas wonders if she’d lie, if she deems him a threat.

But, “She was here,” she says at length. “Where she is now, I do not know. She left in the night.”

It’s the truth, but it’s vague enough that it doesn’t give him any leads. However long she stayed, she’d gained an ally.

He realizes, belatedly, that he’d never asked for her name. There had been introductions on their way to the temple ruins, but she’d stayed tight lipped about her own identity, and that of her clan. No surprise, if she feared they would punish her people if they found her guilty for the events at the Conclave.

“Thank you.”

“You are not from the Circle,” the woman says, as he turns to leave. The statement holds more than its simplicity implies.

He turns. “No.”

She smiles then, at something beyond his understanding. “As I thought.” Then with a final nod, she turns back to whatever task awaits her, and offers him no luck in his pursuit.

 

* * *

 

He doesn’t pause to rest much over the next two days, not when she’s showing no signs of stopping herself. The thought lingers, a bad taste, that though her desperation has gotten her far, it might well end in her own demise if she keeps pushing. He doubts she’s slept much, if at all.

As he’d thought, she’s kept off the Highway, and even the road and the many forest paths. A more difficult route, but one where she’s less likely to run into people. The hills are overrun with rebel mages and templars, but Solas skirts confrontations, as she has done as well, by the zig-zagging pattern of her trail. By the direction she’s heading he’d make a guess that she’s on her way to Redcliffe, perhaps to barter passage across the lake. It would be in his best interest to catch up with her before she gets that far.

He’s entertained the thought of how she’s dealt with the rifts scattered across the region. There are more than there were in the valley, and she’s only ever closed two, to his knowledge. Would she turn away, or attempt to close them on her own? With the amount of demons attracted by the tears, he’d think her wise enough to avoid them altogether. And considering the fact that she’s running from the very ability that allows her to close the rifts, it’s highly unlikely she’d subject herself to the danger.

As it turns out, he’s proven wrong one late afternoon, having stopped for a rest when a disturbance in the Veil claims his attention. And he’s running before his next thought has had time to settle, recognizing the feeling for what it is – a rift closing, albeit only temporarily. But there’s only one person with the ability to even disrupt a rift in such a way. It’s not far, and he hasn’t dawdled in his pursuit, but his steps are quick now, carrying him down the hill towards the river at the bottom. There is a line of trees on the other side, between which the Fade’s unnatural light shines with its uncanny grace.

He makes no attempt to conceal his approach as he move to cross the river, still at a run, and when he pushes through the tree-line frost is already climbing along his fingers. She’s on her back beneath the rift, knocked down by one of the demons, but the heave of her breath tells him she’s not dead.

The first demon shrieks as he sends a torrent of ice to encase it, before turning his attention to trapping the rest. Four in total, but from the state of her and the scorch-marks on the ground, they are not the first. And there will be more yet, if the rift rips open again. Fingers closing around the haft of his staff, Solas makes for the nearest demon.

“Close the rift!”

He hopes the command will knock her out of her daze. A swing of the staff shatters the demon to pieces, before he turns to the remaining three, just in time to see her push herself up, hand raised towards the rift with a cry that resonates through the clearing.

He’s finished off the demons by the time the rift closes in on itself, severing the connection to the mark. The momentum sends her staggering to her knees, cradling her arm against her stomach. With what is doubtless an already overtaxed body, it’s a miracle she managed to stand up at all.

He doesn’t know what prompts the greeting. He’s not usually one for flair – not anymore, anyway.

“You looked like you could use a hand.”

She turns her head, gratitude vivid on her face, freckled cheeks flushed rosy with exertion. Her hair clings to her brow, the red-gold strands turned dark with sweat.

The gratitude, however, flees when her eyes land on him.

“ _You_ ,” she rasps.

He’s surprised to find the smile comes easy. It’s been a while since he’s garnered such a reaction.

“Hello.”

She looks like she’s considering making a run for it, but he’s kneeling beside her before she’s had the chance to get up, although from the way she flinches at every twitch of her muscles, Solas wonders if she’d manage if she tried.

He offers his hand, palm up. The soft, green glow of his magic is an invitation, though for all her stubbornness he doesn’t think she’d refuse. But a skittish horse doesn’t settle under a forceful touch.

At last she nods, a wordless acceptance, and he turns his palm to skim his hand along her leg. “Anything broken?”

Forcing her breath through her nose, she shakes her head. “No, I – I’m just worn out. The…closing rifts takes a lot out of me.”

A vast understatement, considering the one at the temple had left her unconscious for three days, but he doesn’t remark upon it. Instead all he says is, “A remarkable feat, nonetheless.” Touching his fingers to the curve of her shoulder pulls a sigh from her lips. The tendons were strained to the point of rupture. Perhaps a side-effect of the mark, and he stores the thought away for future reference.

“Did they send you to drag me back?” she asks then, her voice carrying the tired lilt of the defeated. She hasn’t tried to stand up again, which, considering her perseverance in trying to get away, speaks volumes of her exhaustion. But there’s a twinge of warning there, too – a promise that she would not make it easy for him, if she had the strength.

It’s an – interesting reaction. He’d often imagined what manner of person she’d be, sitting there in the holding cell, studying the mark. Studying her, when his thoughts would drift. He’d imagined her different. Not near so rebellious. Rebellion has not been in her people’s blood of centuries.

But she shows it now, in the furrow of her brows.  _Charcoal_ , he thinks. That was the colour of her eyes, regarding him with suspicion as he moves his hand to her back, and the knot of muscles sitting beside her spine. She groans, and then clamps her mouth shut – as though unwilling to admit to the relief of his touch.

“You haven’t answered,” she points out, when some time has passed. “Did they send you?”

Her distrust prompts a smile. “In a manner of speaking,” he says, remembering the Seeker’s urgency, but also her reluctance at sending him off alone. “But that is not why I came.”

She blinks, as though questioning whether she’d heard wrong. “No?”

“No,” he repeats, fingers pressing between her shoulder blades, to pull a pained hiss from between her lips.

“What about ‘you hold the key to our salvation?’”

The fact that she remembers the words so clearly makes him chuckle. Perhaps she had thought them more ominous than they were meant. “I still think that. But I do not think forcing it is the answer. A key jammed into a lock with force will only break.”

She’s still regarding him warily. “So what then? You just chased me down to heal me and let me go?”

“Actually,” Solas says, palm pressing fully against her back. She tries not to sigh, but he feels her relief in the way she sinks against the ground. “I thought I might join you.” And whatever she’d expected him to say, it had not been that, at least going by the way her mouth drops open. “If you are amenable to the suggestion,” he adds with a smile.

She’s shaking her head. “But – why?”

There are many ways to go about this conversation. For once, he settles for the truth. “The people of Haven are calling you the chosen of Andraste,” he says, and finds amusement in the near comical widening of her eyes. “But divine responsibility aside, the mark has a purpose. You are the only one capable of closing the rifts. If you wish, I would accompany you in doing so. Including the Breach.”

Her fingers have curled towards her palm, but the light of the mark still pushes through, a soft glow against her skin. “And if I can’t? Close it, I mean. You saw what happened at the temple.”

 _Ah_. Therein lies the reason for her escape. Or part of it, at least. “The mark is the only thing that will work. If it is not enough, it will be through no fault of yours.”

She swallows. “And – you’ll help me? Just for the sake of closing the Breach?”

He smiles. “Just? The Breach threatens the whole world. Do you suspect an ulterior motive?”

Her expression softens. “No, I – of course not. I’m sorry.”

“Do not apologize. You are allowed your misgivings. But the fact remains that you are the only one who can hope to close the Breach. And possibly end the war.”

That makes her laugh, an incredulous, breathy sound. “End the war? I doubt even closing the Breach could do that.”

“Such certainty,” he laughs. Rising to his feet, he holds out a hand, and she regards it with teetering indecision. “We will have to see if you are correct.”

She does not look entirely convinced, and whatever her thoughts, she keeps them to herself. But she takes his hand, fingers closing around his own as he pulls her to her feet.

“You’re putting a lot of faith in one person,” she says, adjusting her coat. Like the rest of her, it bears the signs of a strenuous journey, but her expression conveys a stubbornness would likely need a lot more before yielding.

“One person can do much,” he tells her. “And every great war has its heroes. I’m just curious what kind you’ll be.”

She purses her lips. “And what if I don’t want to be a hero? Or – chosen, or whatever they’re calling me.”

 _Herald_ , he thinks, but doesn’t speak the word. “In my experience, the hero rarely decides to be named such.”

She looks at the mark then, working her lip between her teeth, but he can tell she’s already decided. Rebellious nature aside, the heart that had driven her to try and close the rift on her own had not been that of a coward. She will yet fulfil her purpose. The Seeker will not be pleased at the turn of events, but the greater picture is yet to be uncovered. There are other paths to take to the same destination, Solas knows, than the obvious.

“Okay,” she says then, lifting her eyes to meet his, dark storm clouds churning in their depths and conviction sitting like a weight in her simple utterance.

And once more, the whole world shifts. Changes. Steals his breath right from his lungs.

But if she sees any change in his expression, she doesn’t let on. Instead she extends her hand, and though a trace of suspicion lingers, there is trust implied in the gesture.

“Let’s find a way to close this thing.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm having such a blast writing this.

The Haven Chantry is a sturdy structure, built to withstand the wintry wrath of the Frostbacks. Stone walls encase the warm heart of the interior, with dark wooden beams above and thick doors to keep out the cold. The modest decoration consists mainly of thick wax candles and simple furnishings. Frugal and robust, like the village it oversees.

Upon her arrival, the Chantry had been a welcome refuge. A far cry from the ornate chapels of Val Royeaux, with their marble floors and lustrous tapestries. After the Conclave she’d sought her answers in the dank darkness of the interior, closing herself off from everything but the howl of the wind against the outer walls and the soft susurrus of the Chant within.

But there are no answers for her today, neither in the familiar smell of incense nor the soft flicker of the candlelight.

“You are wearing a hole in the floor, Cassandra.”

Her restless pace comes to a stop, clenched fists loosening to slack fingers against her sides. Leliana leans, a quiet sentinel against the table. Behind her, the map lies crookedly, and Cassandra’s hands twitch to fix it – to fix anything that can be fixed, with the rest of the world careening out of control.

Speaking of. “He is not coming back.” She expects to feel anger, but all she finds is confusion. Five days since they’d sent him off, and still no word. Both of them lost now, somewhere in the Hinterlands.

How Leliana manages to keep her calm, Cassandra will never know. “There might be more to it.”

And  _there’s_  the anger, flaring to life and turning her confusion to cinders. “I do not  _care_. We do not have time for whatever personal scheme that hedge mage is cooking up! I should have known there was a reason he so readily volunteered.”

“You cannot know that, Cassandra. He might not have found her. Or she might not want to be found, and he saw her reluctance as a sign to take his leave of us.”

Running a hand down her face, Cassandra reels in her fury. So many questions. Not for the first time since the Conclave does she find herself missing Justinia’s counsel.

The door swings open then, and she recognizes the slightly uneven step of one with a bad hip even before the Chancellor speaks up.

“Seeker.”

A headache is building, on top of the one she’s been nursing for the past two days. It’s just what she needs –  _other_  people asking questions, pressing her for answers she couldn’t provide if her life depended on it.

Turning towards Chancellor Roderick, it’s a struggle not to let her frustration bleed into her words. They are not in a position to make more enemies, even if his very presence rankles. “What?”

But the Chancellor doesn’t look as gleeful as she’d expected. Only tired, but then they are all tired. “I take it your search for the prisoner has not yielded the results you hoped?”

“We are still looking,” Leliana supplies, with a sternness that betrays some of her outer calm. “We do not plan to give up.”

The Chancellor sighs. “Why waste all this effort on one elf when there are more important things to consider?”

The question falls without his usual scorn, and for all his blustering, Cassandra finds in the words a reminder. Although not correct in his assumption that their efforts are wasted, he’s reminded her of something she’s been putting off. Something that cannot be put off any longer, especially now with their only hope of closing the Breach currently out of their hands.

Turning towards the table and the crooked map, Cassandra considers the decision that sits before her – the one that has weighed on her shoulders for months. It’s high time to make things official, even if doing so means accepting that the state of the world has reached the point they’d feared it would.

“She  _is_  important,” she says, accepting this too, because she must. Andraste’s chosen or not, the elf remains their only hope of closing the Breach. But the rest of the world they can do something about. “But you are right. We cannot sit idle, and there is more than the Breach to consider. The world is in upheaval. If we are to act, it must be now.”

Roderick frowns, no doubt surprised at the sudden turn of the conversation. “And on whose authority do you presume to make this decision, Seeker?”

With the uncanny sense of someone who has worked at her side many years, Leliana appears at her elbow, a heavy tome in her hands. Cassandra takes it, gaze still holding the Chancellor’s as she places it on the table.  

“Do you know what this is, Chancellor?” Palm laid flat upon the tome, she draws her strength from its presence. What it symbolises. “A writ from the Divine, granting us that very authority.”

“I don’t see how that–”

“We will close the Breach,” she cuts him off, with the conviction she hopes will make her believe her own words. “We will find those responsible, and we will restore order. With our without the Herald, and – with or without your approval.”

Roderick doesn’t budge, but she draws some pleasure from the lack of immediate protest. Before her the tome sits, a heavy weight upon the table. And not for the first time does she question whether she’s making the right decision. But there’s no other path to take now than forward. Justinia’s directive was clear, and in her legacy she will find her counsel, and hopefully, her answers.

“As of this moment, I declare the Inquisition reborn.”

 

* * *

 

“Ellana.”

The quiet utterance make him look up, a curious raise to his brows, and despite the events of the past few days, the sight lures the ghost of a smile from her lips. “My name is Ellana,” she clarifies. “I – didn’t return the favour, last time.”

“You were concerned,” Solas says simply. “It is understandable, considering the circumstances.”

“Still. If we’re going to be travelling together, I figured you should at least know what it is.”

“Ellana,” he says, tongue wrapping around the syllables with ease, and following with a small bow of his head. Such odd mannerisms, befitting someone much older. Not even the hahren of her clan would act in such a way – polite almost to a fault, with that strange calm of one who has lived a long life. Of course, Solas looks a good two decades younger than her hahren, but she doesn’t ask, feeling that judging his wisdom by his years is treading dangerously close to unintentional offence, even if he would not consider it such.

They’ve made camp for the night, not far from the clearing where he’d found her, but well away from the scattered remains of the demons strewn about the grass. After closing the rift she’d been in no state fit to travel any further, and as he’s announced he was the only one sent to find her, she’d relented with only minor protests.

Still, she can’t quite suppress the urge to look over her shoulder every few minutes, expecting the worst.

“I have to ask,” she says then, when the silence has dragged on for some time. An oddly companionable silence, considering their very recent acquaintance, but a silence nonetheless. With the tumult of the past few days, the sudden quiet makes her uneasy. “How did you find me so fast? You couldn’t have been far behind.”

A peculiar smile crosses his face. “You had not been gone long when Cassandra sent me off. But you had gotten further than I had thought.” He nods to her hand, and the mark sitting beneath her closed fingers. “Residues of your mark were left in the Veil. It is not a trail you could have covered, even if you had known.”

The casual announcement comes as a surprise. To be able to sense the Veil in such a way…But he’d already proven to know a great deal about the Breach. He’d been the one to study the mark; to theorize that it could be used to close it. “How do you know so much about the Fade?”

Solas shrugs, an almost offhand gesture, as though she’d asked about his knowledge of herbs or pottery. “I have had many dealings there. And many years of study. As any mage would study their chosen discipline, I have studied mine. There are many things they do not teach in your Circles.” That smile again, the one she can’t quite place. The one that looks almost – brittle. “Or your Dalish clans.”

The distance he keeps with the deliberate usage of  _your_  makes her pause, but from what he’s told her, it’s clear that he’s preferred to keep to himself. Perhaps being away from people for so long has solidified the separation he’s imagined in his head.

She wants to pry, but curbs her tongue. Instead she changes the subject. “How did you even convince Cassandra to let you go? I’d almost expected her to come after me herself.”

His smile widens, to something else – something she can read. Honest mirth. “I cannot claim she did not consider the thought. I can only assume her presence was needed more in Haven, than spent chasing after you.”

The mention of Haven and the Seeker dampens her good spirits somewhat. He might joke about it, but the thought of Cassandra catching up with her had not ended with a quiet night spent around a campfire, talking. More shackles, probably. A lot of yelling, most definitely.

The distinct absence of both drags her eyes to Solas again, sitting in quiet contemplation of the fire. There’s been no more talk of closing the Breach, likely so as not to send her running again. But Ellana is surprised to find the idea doesn’t sound quite as – daunting, as it did back in that cabin. There’s no one calling her  _lady_  here, or prisoner, or even guilty. If she fails, it won’t be her head. But with his knowledge of the Fade and the rifts, the thought of failure doesn’t seem so certain as it had, either.

Even so, some of her wariness still lingers. How will history remember her, if she succeeds? Will it remember that she ran?

Would it be better for them all if she just kept running?

A yawn pulls, unbidden from her throat. For all his healing of her hurts, there’s still the matter of her not having slept in days, and now that she’s finally sat down to rest her body appears to be catching up with what she’s been putting it through since her escape.

“You should sleep.”

She considers the suggestion – the bedroll he’s put out by the fire, as inviting as any bed. But something makes her hesitate, despite the tired sag of her limbs.

“I will keep watch,” Solas adds, as though that’s her main concern. When she doesn’t speak, he chuckles. “Or do you think I would try to take you back while you slept?”

She doesn’t tell him that  _yes_ , she had entertained the thought, if only for a moment. She doesn’t have to – it’s clear by the amusement in his eyes that he’s suspected as much. But let him think her over-cautious and silly, he’s not the one who’s been running for his life for the past four days.

But he had run after her, and he had saved her from the demons. And her fears seem unfounded now, with the warmth of the firelight and the quiet sounds of the forest. Despite being miles from her clan, it’s the closest to home she’s felt in a long time.

Wordlessly, she moves to the bedroll, settling down with the fire at her back. The forest beyond the clearing looms, a host of shadows that could hide anything. More demons, or reinforcements from Haven.

“Hamin, da’len,” he says, the words quiet below the hiss and crackle of the fire, and the weight of his palm on her brow makes her eyes flutter closed, as though through some other will than her own. But her exhaustion is real enough, and when sleep beckons she follows; allows the calm of the evening to wrap around her and carry her off, away from the thoughts that have kept her awake and running since Haven.

His hand is still on her brow when she finally succumbs, the warmth of it pushing her down, down,  _down_ –

 

* * *

 

The next thing she knows she’s waking, to find the sun having already risen, and feeling oddly rested.

Eyes cracking open against the glare, she pushes herself up from the bedroll, a yawn escaping with the languid stretch of her arms. Rested and – rolling her left shoulder doesn’t provoke the pain it had the day before, when it had felt like it was about to dislocate from its socket. Solas’ doing, no doubt.

Rubbing the vestiges of sleep from her eyes, she makes to stand. The clearing lies shrouded in a thin cover of mist, already dissipating with the sun’s slowly curling warmth. There’s birdsong at the edge of her hearing, a cheerful chatter above the river’s gentle passing. It makes for an almost bizarrely idyllic combination, considering the same clearing was teeming with demons not half a day ago.

The fact that it’s so quiet brings to mind her companion, and she realizes she’s alone a split second before she hears the approaching footfalls, and panic has had the chance to seize her completely.

“Good morning. Or should I say, good day.”

Turning on her heel finds him stepping through the trees, devoid of his rucksack, but still carrying his staff. “I was surveying the area.” A small smile. “I assumed you would be asleep for some time.”

She tries not to flush. The sun is close to its noontime mark, long past her usual waking hour.

Of course, her embarrassment doesn’t go unnoticed. “You needed the rest,” he says, a gentle admonishment in the reminder. 

The snort pulls free without her explicit consent. “The last time I woke, I was told I’d been out for three days.” She doesn’t look at the mark, but feels it with the rub of her fingers against her palm. “It seems I’m doomed to have an irregular sleep schedule as long as I have this.”

“As long as you keep pushing yourself the way you have, yes. There is such a thing as moderation.”

“Hmm. Moderation? What’s that?” And she’s surprised to find herself smiling in earnest now.

“Perhaps I have some wisdom to impart,” Solas offers, a little dryly. “But in all seriousness, I would suggest advancing at a less breakneck pace than the one that got you this far. Impressive as that was.”

She tries not to latch onto that word –  _impressive_. Instead she turns her focus to the other end of that sentence. “About that. Where do we go from here, exactly?” How does one even begin going about closing the Breach? The thought seems so vastly beyond her capabilities.

Solas seems to have already considered it, and she doesn’t know why she’s surprised. “If my theory is correct, what we lacked was power. A second attempt might succeed, provided we have the necessary support.”

Ellana sucks a breath through her nose. There’s goes any chance of doing this on their own. “So, what? More magic?”

“That is one possibility. What we need is the equivalent of the power used to open the Breach in the first place.”

“ _Ha_ ,” she breathes, the laugh incredulous. “Because that’s the sort of thing you find lying around on the ground.”

A chuckle. “A fair point. However,” he says, nodding towards the trees, beyond which lies the road she’d been on the day before, when she’d discovered the rift. “There is no shortage of mages in this region at present.”

“Are you suggesting we ask the  _rebels_  for help?” After what she’s seen, Ellana doubts they’d be amenable to the suggestion. Creators, they’d be lucky if they got close enough to ask. 

But, “Not the rebels on the road,” Solas says. “When the Circles rebelled, Ferelden offered them sanctuary. There will be mages in Redcliffe perhaps more willing to listen.”

There’s logic in that, Ellana realizes, a little belatedly. Appealing to others for help means potentially endangering others as well. It would seem that even without the people at Haven, this isn’t something she can do alone.

“Alright,” she says. “Pour enough magic into the mark, and maybe it will be enough to close the Breach. Sounds simple enough.” And dangerous, but what other option is there?

 _Run_ , a thought whispers the answer, though it leaves a bad taste in her mouth now. But perhaps if they appeal to the mages and gather enough power, they might reach the Breach and close it without causing too much of a fuss. If they fail, she might still have a chance of getting away. And if they succeed, she might lose herself in the chaos. The world will be saved, and history will remember her only as the elf who assisted. Few of her people are ever given notable mentions in human recordings of great events. She will likely be no exception.

There’s still one issue that remains, however. “Do you really think they’d agree to talk?”

Solas shrugs. “We are both fellow apostates. We might appeal to them as such. However grave their current situation, they will recognize the threat posed by the Breach.”

“Hopefully.” The mages she’s seen on the road have not seemed particularly inclined towards common sense, but letting loose a caged and threatened animal and expecting it to see reason is perhaps even less sensible. But there must be mages who still have their wits about them.

“We should keep our heads down, but a village seems like our best option. If anything, we need to restock.” Plucking at her coat prompts a grimace. Between the dirt and the dried demon blood, it’s seen better days. “And I think this has served its use.” Looking up, she finds him regarding her curiously, as though gauging her reaction. What would he do if she refused, Ellana wonders.

But she doesn’t let her thoughts linger long on that. A decision must be made, and he appears intent on letting her make it, for all that she isn’t even sure if this is something that she wants to do. But trudging about the hills forever will likely give them blisters rather than answers.

Drawing a breath, she steels herself; roots her fragile new conviction in the first step of a slowly burgeoning plan.  _Mythal, I hope I’m doing the right thing._

“To Redcliffe, then.”

 

* * *

 

As it turns out, rebel mages aside, even reaching Redcliffe proved more difficult than she’d thought.

The rebellion tearing the region apart makes travelling hazardous, and to avoid the fighting they’ve been forced to take different routes, cutting wide circles around particularly dangerous areas and making a one-day journey stretch well over two days. Of course, some of the fault is her own, for having to stop and rest more often than she’d have liked. Having allowed herself that first night of rest had in turn allowed the panic that had driven her to settle, leaving a lingering exhaustion that has proven difficult to push through.

Solas has endured her moods with admirable calm, seeming entirely at ease with letting her set the pace, even with the Breach looming. They’ve spoken to keep the miles from stretching too long, and her mind off what awaits in Redcliffe. History. Languages. The odds and ends of their dwindling culture, though he speaks of the latter with far less enthusiasm than the first. But the talking keeps her going, and it’s late afternoon on the third day since setting out from the clearing that they finally spot the stone gate rising above the trees in the distance.

They come to a stop at the top of a gently sloping hill, at the bottom of which the road stretches past, curving towards the village. A sigh pulls from her lips – relief at the thought of an inn, and a possible change of clothes. She is starting to reek. “About time.”

Solas offers a raised brow. “And here I thought you were wary about coming here. Have you changed your mind?”

“I’m still wary about talking to the  _mages_. Not so much about the possibility of a hot bath.”

“Ah. I should have suspected there was another reason.”

She cuts him a wry glance. “You joke, but at least you got to leave Haven in more than just rags.” She spares a baleful glance at the dark blotch of demon blood covering most of her once-green coat.

Solas doesn’t offer any more remarks on her priorities, but amusement lurks at the corner of his mouth. Ellana thinks she might have been embarrassed, but the easy repartee makes it strangely comfortable opening herself up.

She’s contemplating the wisdom of her reluctantly growing trust when she feels it – that eerie  _tug_  at the mark.

_Fenedhis._

“A rift?”

Fingers curling to a fist, she nods. “The direction of the gate, I – think. It’s a little difficult to pinpoint sometimes.” Indecision drums a restless tune against her spine, and she looks at Solas. “Do we – should we close it?”

Much to her dismay, all she gets is a cool smile, revealing nothing of his thoughts. “That would be up to you. You are the one with the mark.”

She huffs. “Yes, thank you for the reminder. I meant – do you think we’d manage? Just the two of us?” They’d handled the last one, but there might be more demons, or the rift itself might be bigger. Perhaps too big for her to close with her own power.

To her now quickly growing irritation, Solas doesn’t budge. “Possibly. It would depend on the rift. Either way, the decision is yours.”

Outright frustration is building now, swelling inside her chest with enough force to push a wordless noise of irritation up her throat. “Fine! We close it then, are you happy now?”

When all she gets is another raised brow, Ellana turns to stomp down the hill.  _Fen’Harel take both your brows and your blasted calm. Let’s see who’s smiling when we’re both dead!_ But her decision made, she’s surprised that she doesn’t hesitate, picking up her pace to a quick jog along the road towards the gate. It’s the same feeling she’d had when she’d made the choice to close the other rift on her own – the knowledge that  _it must be done_.

She doesn’t look back to check that he’s behind her. Instead she focuses all her attention on the rift in the distance, sitting right beneath the arching entryway. They’ve closed the portcullis, likely to keep the demons from entering the village. Amongst them there are guards fighting, the shouts reaching towards her as she continues to close the distance between herself and the rift.

She’s running even as she raises her hand, reaching towards the tear as it reaches to meet her, and she feels the connection as it takes hold.

Then, something strange happens. Her movements become sluggish, slowed to a point where she’s not sure if she’s the one who’s stopped moving, or the world. But whatever it is, it’s slowed down her attempt at disrupting the rift.

Which makes it all the more confusing, when a demon lunges towards her at an alarming speed.

The impact knocks her off her feet, severing the rift’s connection to the mark, and she cries out, in surprise more than actual pain, as she’s sent tumbling. The stone gate stops her movements with an abruptness that leaves her head ringing.

A hand on her shoulder then, dragging her to her feet. “I will hold the demons off. Focus on the rift!” The words are sharp jabs against her reeling head, pulling a groan from between her clenched teeth, but she manages a nod, and when Solas releases his grip she’s already moving.

The soldiers fighting the demons help keep them occupied and off her back as she makes to run in a circle, scrambling towards higher ground and a better vantage point. But she hasn’t gotten two steps before something weird happens again, and she feels like she’s charging, pushed forward at a greater speed than should be possible.

Then, as quickly as it had sped up, time slows down again, and the abrupt change almost sends her sprawling on her face.

“WOULD YOU STOP THAT?!” And she doesn’t know who or what she’s yelling at exactly, but confusion has given way to fury now as she pushes back to her feet, her breath forcing itself from her lungs like she’s run a mile.

But there’s an opening now – there are no demons advancing on her, and time seems to be acting normally, if only temporarily.  _If you’re going to do it, do it now!_

Reaching towards the rift again, Ellana pulls, willing it to yield with every ounce of frustration charging up within her. The thought registers that they’ve finished off the demons, but it’s hard to focus on anything beyond the rift. Thick beads of sweat on her brow trickle down into her eyes, to pool at the top of her lip, but she breathes through her nose and ignores the strain. Nausea roils in her stomach; shoves up her throat like bile, along with a roar as she puts all her weight into forcibly  _shoving_  the tear closed.

The audible  _snap_  of the severed connection echoes in her head, but she doesn’t fall to her knees this time, and though a small victory, it’s one that makes her strangely pleased.

She realizes that she’s breathing like she’s just emerged from a drowning, but can’t quite make herself mind. Leaning her hands on her knees, she lets out a string of oaths, dissolving into relieved laughter that makes her shoulders shake.

“Good work.”

Glancing up, she finds Solas, looking far more composed and with a smile that actually reaches his eyes. And she would respond in kind, but it’s hard to speak past her heaving breaths.

He moves towards her then, and Ellana jumps when his hand comes to touch the back of her head, before a startled hiss turns her surprise to pain. 

“You hit your head when you fell.”

She remembers her somewhat unpleasant meeting with the stone gate. “Ah, that – there was something off about that rift.” The warmth of his hand against her scalp turns the tail-end of her sentence to a sigh.

“Yes,” Solas agrees. “However improbable, it seemed to somehow bend the time around it. It appears there might be more to these rifts than simply allowing passage from the other side.”

A groan. “ _Great_. As though closing them wasn’t complicated enough.”

Allowing his hand to drop, Solas smiles. “And yet you continue to adapt.”

There’s a veiled compliment there, and she tries to suppress the smile. “It’s either that or die. And I’d rather not die.”

The glib comment earns her a low chuckle, before he turns towards the closed gate. Ellana moves to follow, only to come to a sudden stop. All the guards have gathered, openly staring. Incredulous whispers drift into the quiet left by the closed rift.

Ellana swallows, and spares her companion a meaningful glance. “Well.” 

“So much for keeping our heads down.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hahren: elder; term of respect  
> hamin: rest, relax  
> da'len: little one  
> fenedhis: crap, or the equivalent of


	4. Chapter 4

The deep copper tub welcomes her tired weight, sinking into the water with a sigh that rises with the steam towards the ceiling. A very human luxury, and one she’s not indulged in often, but after almost a week spent getting her only shift sullied beyond recognition and herself even more so, settling into the almost scalding warmth might well be one of the best things she’s ever felt. There’s grime dissolving in the water around her, from her hair and places she’d rather not think about, but the small bar of soap she’s been given smells divine compared to the shit that had caked in every available crevice of her person.

Sounds from the common room below drift up through the wooden planks, and she’s reminded of their arrival, not near as covert as she’d hoped, with half the village staring after them. Word about the rift closing had spread too quickly for them to be able to contain it, and by the time they’d reached the village there’d been a considerable group gathering by the path to watch them pass.

A small mercy, the innkeeper had been blessedly practical about the whole affair, offering free lodgings on account of the closed gate costing him valued business, and nothing more than a curious glance. An unexpected charity, and one she’d been reluctant to accept, but Solas had offered their thanks and pushed her upstairs before she could object.

Then one of the serving girls had come to make her bath, and any protests she’d prepared had been lost at the sight of the tub.

A knock on the door makes her jump, water splashing over the sides as she slips, a yelp escaping despite herself.

“Ah – yes?”

She can almost feel the amusement in the pause that follows. “I have arranged for an audience. The former Grand Enchanter is at the tavern. She would meet with us when you are ready.”

She nods, then – realizing he can’t see it, clears her throat. “I won’t be long.”

“By all means, take your time.”

She listens to his retreating footsteps, and tries to blame the flush that’s erupted across her neck and cheeks on the steam from the bath.  _What is wrong with you? Has it been so long you’d readily jump at anyone with a nice voice?_

Chewing on her lip, Ellana tries not to let her thoughts wander far down  _that_  particular path, though it has been a while since she’d felt anything like the flutter prompted by his small smiles, and that low chuckle. The last was a balmy night, not long before she’d left her clan. They’d gone to check on the halla, and had ended up tucked away in the grove. She remembers the starlit sky above the canopy, and kisses on her collarbones. The warm laughter in her ears.

She considers her knees, peeking up from the tub. Her life had been normal, then. She’d had her duties, her friends. Her aches and pains. She’d risen with the sun and walked under the night sky. That life seems so far away now. She wonders if she’ll ever get it back, or if it’s too late to salvage the remnants of who she was, before the Conclave and the Breach. She still feels herself, but – different. Not much older. Certainly not wiser, sitting with more questions than answers. And part of her wonders if the change is irrevocable – if this is who she is now, and that the Ellana who’d left her clan was lost at the temple along with everyone else.

The mark casts an eerie glow against the copper tub, oddly beautiful in its foreignness. Uncurling her fingers, she considers it, sitting at the heart of her palm. The key to closing the Breach, though not by her own power. It seems that whatever her decision, it will have to include asking for help, but at least this is on her own terms. Whatever her fate, she will carve it for herself, not have it decided by human zealots as likely to revere her as burn her at the stake.

With a sigh, she makes to rise from the tub. The cool temperature of the room is a welcome change from the water, and letting the air dry her skin, she begins to wring the moisture out of her hair. But when she reaches for her coat, her hands still, nose wrinkling at the sight of the heap in which she’d left it. She’s never been finicky about a little dirt, but the thought of putting on the foul-smelling rags after just having scrubbed away the shit from her person makes her pause. She would have seen to getting something before her bath if she’d had the mind to, but without so much as a copper in her pocket she wouldn’t have been able to wrangle even a scrap of fabric from the most understanding vendor.

Another knock on the door drags her from her thoughts, but this time it’s the serving girl who ducks inside, a bundle in her arms and cheerfully uncaring of Ellana’s state of complete undress.

“Your friend left this,” she declares, handing over the bundle. “And said to tell you he’d be waiting by the tavern. Odd fellow, ain’t he? Bald as a brass bowl. Is that common among elves?” Not waiting for an answer – or likely, not expecting one – the girl only hums, and makes her way back out.

And too busy staring at what she’d all but dumped in her arms, Ellana wouldn’t have had the words to provide an answer anyway.

Dropping the bundle on the bed, she roots through the garments with a slowly growing awe. A clean shirt and breeches. A sturdy new coat, lined with lambswool. Supple deerskin boots. She remembers his strange smile, when she’d revealed her desire for a change of clothes. A soft laugh pulls from her lips as she palms the fabric of her new shirt.

“Something tells me you’re not going to let me live this down.”

But part of her – the one who’s felt the grip of solitude like a sickness – feels that she wouldn’t really mind that much.

Shaking her head, she sets about dressing, spirits lifted considerably, even with the knowledge of the task that awaits.

 

* * *

 

Her hair is still drying when they make their way to  _The_   _Gull and Lantern_ , the sun having dipped below the village rooftops, and the evening shadows creeping in, along with a crawling mist from the lake.

She hasn’t inquired about how he came about her new clothes, but he’s changed his own wool overcoat, and so she counts it safe to assume he’d had more coin in his pockets than she. But she had thanked him, to which he’d only responded with a smile, and that it was a small kindness.

Climbing the stone steps towards the tavern, Solas stops, head tilted as though having caught something beyond her hearing.

“What is it?”

Brows pulling together in a frown, it’s the closest to disconcerted she’s seen him. “The Veil is weaker here,” he says, with a lingering glance at the building at the top of the steps. Music drifts out of the open window and into the evening quiet. “Altered,” he adds, almost to himself.

Unease sits, heavy in his quiet words. It makes her restless, her gut screaming at her to run, to put the village and the rebel mages far behind them.

But she did run. And it got her here, despite her better judgement. But – for some reason, and for all her misgivings, Ellana finds herself trusting Solas’ judgement now, on the steps of the tavern that could hold their chance at closing the Breach. And anyway, if it turns out to be a dead end, they have no obligations to the mages that would keep them from moving on.

“Should we go inside?”

The look of unease disappears, replaced with a small smile as he steps to the side, allowing her to pass. Ellana only shakes her head, and stifles her pleasure at the gesture.  _None of that now! Focus._

The tavern interior is a muted din of laughter and chairs scraping against the floorboards, punctuated by the gentle twang of a lute from somewhere on the other side of the establishment. It doesn’t take long to pick out those they have come to speak with from the rest of the patrons, sitting calmly by a table towards the far end of the room. Still, their presence makes her hesitate. They might not be as hostile as those hiding in the hills, but she won’t mistake civility for docility, especially considering that they are grossly outnumbered.

Upon their approach, a small elven woman rises from her chair. Dressed in dark blue robes too fine for a simple acolyte, Ellana knows her as the former Grand Enchanter before she even opens her mouth.

“So you are the one requesting an audience,” she says, a mellow Orlesian accent making the words roll pleasantly off her tongue. Not a very polite greeting, but circumstances being what they are, Ellana had hardly expected one.  _At least they’re not armed. Visibly, anyway._

“I am Grand Enchanter Fiona. That is, former Grand Enchanter,” she continues, looking to Ellana. “I heard about the rift at the gate. An impressive feat. None of the mages here were able to put so much as a dent in it.”

Her fingers curl almost instinctively towards the mark, but though hidden by her glove it still draws the Grand Enchanter’s eyes. No doubt word has already reached her about the source of her ability, but she seems determined for Ellana to bring it up herself. Whether or not she suspects  _why_  they’ve sought her out is another matter.

“My name is Ellana,” she starts, feeling awkward teetering between humility and authority. There’s no telling what would be the best approach, and the only thing keeping her from looking to Solas for assistance is the fact that showing how uncertain she truly is would not doubt give a very poor first impression. “This is Solas. And – my ability to close the rifts is actually why we’re here.”

The Grand Enchanter raises her brows, visibly intrigued, though wariness sits in the press of her mouth. “I am listening.”

 _You can do this_. “We’ve come to ask for your assistance in closing the Breach.” A small surge of pride follows the level tone of her voice, and it spurs her on. “The mark is not enough on its own, but with the support of the free mages we think we might have a chance.”

She’d considered a number of reactions, before coming to the tavern. Suspicion, probably. Reluctance, most certainly. It’s not a small request that she’s put forth, but what she hadn’t expected was the look of regret that crosses the Grand Enchanter’s face at the heels of her declaration.

“I should have liked to assist you, Ellana,” she says. “The Breach is a threat far greater than the odd rift in the hills. But I am sorry to say that I am in no position to offer the support you need.” She draws a breath, as though for courage to say what follows. “The free mages have already pledged themselves to the service of the Tevinter Imperium.”

The words fall amidst the tavern chatter, surprisingly loud for their quiet utterance, and Ellana can only stare. Despite every conceivable reason she’d considered that the mages might refuse her request, this hadn’t even struck her as a possibility. And as such, she has no carefully thought-out reply to offer, leaving her, regrettably, with the first thing that springs to mind.

“Have you lost your minds?”

A flicker of anger crosses the Grand Enchanter’s face, but before she can speak, Solas steps in. “I understand that you are afraid,” he says, with far more tact. Ellana snaps her gaping mouth shut. “But surely you deserve better than slavery to Tevinter.”

“I did what I had to do,” Fiona argues. “The Breach is a threat, yes, but not the only threat. I had to ensure the safety of the mages, and it was not to be found in Ferelden.”

Another protest is rising, too fast for her to stifle. “But–”

The door swings open then, admitting more people. But not simple patrons, by the way the leader cuts towards them, the prowl of a hunter in his sure step. A chill races down her spine, and she’s aware of Solas taking a step closer.

“I was informed of a meeting taking place,” the man announces, as he comes to stand beside the Grand Enchanter. “Strange, that you did not request my presence, as the southern mages are presently under my command.”

The cowl gives him an almost ridiculously ominous air, only further enhanced by the curiously roaming glance that comes to rest on Ellana, before realization settles in a slowly curving smile that makes her skin crawl.

“Ah, but I know who  _you_  are,” he says then. “The survivor from the Fade. The one who can close rifts.” He doesn’t look at her hand, but the knowledge sits in the words, and she has the sudden urge to hide it behind her back. In fact, his very presence makes her want to back out, and to look elsewhere for help. Except that this had been their best shot.

And his retinue is currently blocking their only way out.

More things have happened than she’d prepared for, but…perhaps his fascination with the mark will make him responsive to her request. It’s the only plan she has that doesn’t include fighting their way out, and she doesn’t even glance at Solas as she makes to speak.

“Yes, that’s – me.”  _The survivor. At least it’s not Herald._  She swallows. “I came here to ask for assistance, but if you’re the one leading the mages now, I suppose I should be asking you.” It takes effort not to cringe at her own words, but she’s known humans like him; has met more than a handful during dealings with her clan. Deference is the only way to get what you want.

Surprise alights on his face. “And here I’d expected resistance. I’m glad to be proven wrong.” He motions towards the table. “Let us talk.”

Ellana risks a glance at Solas now, but finds no answers in his carefully blank expression. But when she makes to take a seat, he comes to stand behind her.

“I apologize. I haven’t introduced myself,” the man says then. “I am Magister Gereon Alexius, of the Tevinter Imperium. A pleasure to meet you…?”

Unlike with the Grand Enchanter, the urge to lie is quick in leaping to the forefront of her mind, but the mages gathered have already heard her name. Lying is out of the question. “Ellana,” she says at length.

“Ellana,” he repeats, as though to memorize it, and she wonders if she’s made a huge mistake.

A hand on her shoulder then, not pressing down but resting lightly. Easily. Her rising sense of dread settles somewhat, as she tries to focus on the weight of it.

“Felix, would you send for a scribe, please?” Alexius offers a smile that holds more warmth than his presence had first suggested. “My son Felix, friends,” he introduces the young man having just approached the table. Ellana receives a bow, and hopes the smile she offers in turn doesn’t betray her extreme discomfort.

“I am not surprised you are here,” the Magister says then, when his son makes to depart. “Containing the Breach is no simple feat. I am, however, surprised that you are so – few.” He throws a quick glance to Solas at her back.

The declaration makes her hesitate. The fact that he’s not surprised by their presence suggests that he knows the mark is not enough to seal the Breach on its own. Then again, the success of the whole venture is just a theory, and if he’s studied the Fade like Solas, perhaps it’s not so strange that he’d come to the same conclusion.

Still, something about him makes getting the request off her tongue harder than it had with Fiona. “The fact that we are so few is the reason we’ve come to you,” she says, choosing her words carefully.

Alexius considers them both, and there’s – something lurking in his expression that she can’t quite place.  _Disappointment? No...discontent._

“Ah. But there is no telling how many mages would be needed for such an endeavour. It’s certainly ambitious.”

The vagueness of his words make her hands curl to fists beneath the table. If he wants to make her grovel, she doesn’t know if she could dredge up the conviction to do so. They need the mages’ assistance, but with the way he’s dangling it in front of her, as though the world can afford to wait while he decides what course of action will be in his best interest...

She tries to keep her voice level when she answers. “Is that a yes or a no?”

Alexius makes to answer, when Felix suddenly staggers towards the table, about to fall over. And she’s on her feet before she’s had another thought, making to help him stand, but her knees buckle under his weight as he all but takes her down with him.

“Felix!”

Picking himself up, Felix helps her stand, murmuring an apology as his father comes to check, fretting in earnest as the laden tension surrounding their negotiations dissipates. And it takes all her strength to curb her surprise when something is discretely slipped into her hand.

Alexius makes to lead his son towards the door, calling for the Grand Enchanter as he walks. “Please excuse me, friends. I looks like we will have to continue this at another time.” He turns towards Ellana. “If you are staying in Redcliffe, I will have a missive sent when I am ready to resume negotiations.”

Then they’re gone, leaving Ellana with Solas. The other patrons barely spare them a passing glance, going about their evening as though nothing out of the ordinary has occurred, though her unease doesn’t feel entirely imagined now.

“He appeared to have foreseen our approach,” Solas says. “But something surprised him.”

She nudges his arm, nodding for the door. “Come on.”

Intrigue sits in the quirk of his brows, but he follows without protest, until they’re outside and down the steps, well away from the tavern and whatever ears might still be listening.

“His son slipped me something when he fell,” she says, when she’s certain they’re out of earshot. “Here.”

Solas takes the folded note, eyes skimming over the contents. “’Come to the Chantry. You are in danger’.” He raises a brow. “It is certainly ominous.”

“Do you think it’s a trap or a warning?”

He lifts his eyes to look at her, and she finds herself suddenly tremendously glad she’d agreed to his company. Not simply for the company itself, but because it’s been a long time since she’d felt comfortable enough around someone outside her clan to allow herself to expose her insecurities. Her Keeper had always advocated against it; had said that a leader’s responsibilities included a strong front, no matter the turmoil churning within.

But she’s no one’s leader, and will likely never be. She can afford this trust.

She wonders if he’s noticed the path her thoughts have taken. He’s certainly perceptive enough. But he doesn’t bring it up. Instead he only hands back the folded piece of paper, that unreadable expression on his face as cryptic as the note itself.

“I suppose we will have to see.”

 

* * *

 

The Redcliffe Chantry looms, a far more imposing structure than  _The Gull and Lantern_ , and her approach is wary in truth now as they climb the stone steps towards the large set of wooden doors at the top.

“If they jump out of the shadows with sacks, I’ll give you time to run.”

He laughs. “How admirable. Though it would be better if  _you_  were the one who got away.”

A smile breaks through her nervousness. “I’m going to pretend you’re flattering me, and that you’re not actually referring to the fancy mark on my hand that is rather in demand these days.” And before he has the chance to question the arguably flirtatious undertone to her attempt at a breezy comeback, she’s moved on, cheeks burning and all but jogging up the last few steps.

Inside the Chantry however, what jumps out at them does not carry sacks.

A stream of molten fire comes hurtling their way moments after pushing the doors open, and she has to throw herself out of its trajectory, grabbing onto Solas’ collar for a supremely undignified rescue attempt that sends them both tumbling. An ‘ _oof!’_  pulls loose of her lungs as the stone floor welcomes her sudden descent, with the addition of the weight landing on top of hers.

The fireball explodes against the doors, and Ellana looks up in time to find its source battling down a group of shades beneath what is unmistakably an open rift.

“Good, you’re finally here!” the mage calls out, twirling his staff to give a whack to one of the shades. “Help me close this, would you?”

A remarkably calm request, considering the Chantry is brimming with demons, but she doesn’t waste her breath pointing that out. Hands on her elbows help her back up, and she offers a sheepish smile to Solas’ apology, before making towards the rift.

Closing it proves easier than her other attempts, though that might have something to do with the magical assistance. The soldiers at the gate had floundered about more than actually helped keep the demons at bay, but with the combined efforts of Solas and the stranger, she’s given enough openings to disrupt the rift without interruptions. Elated laughter at the edge of her hearing makes her want to turn and check, but she keeps her eyes on the task before her, until the rift closes in on itself with a scattering of green light across the lush red carpets.

She’s shaking the tingling sensation from her fingers when the stranger turns towards her, a grin making his impeccably trimmed moustache curve. Too finely dressed for a rebel mage, and with an accent too polished for her to place, Ellana finds herself at a loss.

“You are her, then – the one they say can close rifts,” he announces. “The missing Herald.”

She tries not to bristle at the casual words – or, tries not to let on that she does.  _Missing_. That’s what they’re going with, then. As though she was simply lost to them through something other than her own volition.

“So, how does that work, exactly?” the stranger continues, eyes caught and held by her hand, and cheerfully unmindful of her slowly building irritation. When she doesn’t answer immediately, he laughs. “You don’t even know, do you? You just wiggle your fingers and boom! Rift closes.”

She’s half-tempted to deny the claim, but he’s not far off. She just hopes he doesn’t notice her ears flushing.

“Would you mind telling us who  _you_  are?”

“Ah! Getting ahead of myself again, I see.” He makes to bow. “Dorian of House Pavus, most recently of Minrathous.” The grin widens, so violently at odds with the spatter of demon blood across his pristine robes. “How do you do?”

“Another Tevinter,” Solas says as he comes to stand beside her, tone betraying none of his thoughts.

“Yes,” the man – Dorian – agrees. “And I bet you’re about to lump me in with the rest of the cautionary tales fed to young Fereldan ears. So prejudiced, you southerners.”

“You do realize you’re talking to elves,” Ellana counters, a little dryly. She doesn’t know what to make of him, and whether or not to keep her guard up. She still doesn’t have a staff, and he’d held his own against the demons. It’s hard to say whether or not he could take them both on, if prompted.

“Oh. You’re right. A bit short-sighted of me, I apologize. Should we start over?”

“How about you just tell us why you called us here. I’m assuming the note was from you?” She can’t see Felix anywhere. Or anyone else for that matter. If it’s a trap, it’s either a very poor one, or they haven’t sprung it yet.

Dorian nods. “You assume right. And like the note said, you’re here because you are in danger. How do I know? Because Magister Alexius was once my mentor. So I’m here to help, gracious soul that I am. Naturally, you can see why my assistance would be valuable.”

She doesn’t care that she’s openly frowning now. Whatever she expected to come out of his mouth, it wasn’t this. “You’re betraying your mentor?”

“I should have been more specific.  _Former_  mentor, as it were.” And then, like he’s just realized they’ve been wasting time with particulars, his expression turns serious. “But that is beside the point. You must know there is danger. Even without the note, you must have suspected something was not right, yes?”

She doesn’t confirm his statement, but she doesn’t have to. He continues before she can speak. “Let’s talk about his rather convenient indenturing of the free mages, just before you arrived to ask for their support. Didn’t seem like a coincidence, did it?”

“You’re saying he knew we were coming?”

“Well, both yes and no. He knew you were coming, but I rather suspect he imagined you would be coming with a – larger force at your back.” He offers Solas a curious look. “No offence to you, I’m certain you’re excellent company. Just not what Alexius expected.”

Ellana frowns. “He did say something about that.”

“No doubt because he thought you’d be with the Inquisition.”

“The what?”

Dorian frowns, as though she’d just confessed to idiocy. “The Inquisition,” he repeats, as though speaking it slowly would jog her memory. “Or the ‘upstarts in Haven’, as your Chantry has so charmingly named them. As well as publicly denounced. And rather brutally. It’s almost like being back home.” He laughs, then tilts his head; regards her curiously. “Where have you been that you haven’t heard of this? You’re supposedly part of it, after all. I’d assumed it was why you left.”

Ellana shares a look with Solas, who – much to her irritation – looks far less surprised by the news. She shakes her head. “But – wait, what did you say about me being ‘part of it’?”

Dorian shrugs. “The Inquisition, newly formed that it is, vows to restore order. Word has it you’re their trump card, so to speak. Of course, hard to use your trump card when you’ve lost it, isn’t it?” He gives her a meaningful look. “If you’re wondering how many know you’re currently not in their possession, I wouldn’t worry too much. At least for now. It appears they’ve stemmed the rumours from getting too far. Enough for them not to reach Alexius, anyhow, though that hasn’t helped you much.” At her deepening frown, he elaborates, “To reach Redcliffe before you, he distorted time itself.”

He offers the information with entirely too much nonchalance, Ellana thinks. “Come again? He distorted  _time_?” But even as she says the words, she thinks about the rift at the village gate. It had altered time around it; sped it up and slowed it down.

“That is fascinating if true,” Solas says then, to Ellana’s surprise, before adding, “And almost certainly dangerous.”

“You don’t know the half of it,” Dorian says. “The rift you closed at the gate. Am I right in guessing it was not like the others you have encountered? That’s because it isn’t. And there will be more like it, appearing further and further away from Redcliffe. In fact, if given the chance, Alexius’ magic will unravel the whole world.”

So many questions, piling atop the ones she already has, but what she asks is the most pressing issue. “How do we know we can trust you?”

“I helped develop this magic,” Dorian admits, if a twinge regretfully. “So if anything, you can trust that I know what I’m talking about. Granted, when I was still Alexius’ apprentice, it was pure theory. He could never get it to work. Now he has, though I can’t figure out  _why_  he’s doing it. The southern mages can’t be worth the effort of ripping time itself to shreds.”

“He didn’t do it for them.”

The new voice draws their eyes, to find Felix approaching from the shadows.

“Took you long enough!” Dorian exclaims, but with a smile that makes Ellana relax. Beside her, Solas’ hand falls back, having been ready to reach for his staff. “Is he getting suspicious?”

“No,” Felix says. “But I shouldn’t have played the illness card. I thought he’d be fussing over me all day.”

He turns to Ellana then. “My father’s joined a cult. Tevinter supremacists. They call themselves ‘Venatori’.” His look hardens. “And I can tell you this. Whatever he’s done for them, he’s done it to get to you.”

“Me?” But of course – the mark. The way he’d looked at her hand back in the tavern. She doesn’t want to know what he could possibly need it for. “Something tells me he’s not out to close the Breach.”

“No,” Dorian says, entirely without humour. “That would suggest an honourable motive.”

She looks to Solas, to find a frown that tells her that for once, he’s as thrown as she, though the thought doesn’t give her any pleasure. Rather the opposite.

“Any ideas?” They only came here to ask for help from the mages, but it seems something much bigger is unravelling at her fingertips. Like pulling a loose thread and realizing you’re about to ruin the whole tapestry.  _Fenedhis, Ellana, what have you gotten yourself into?_

“This might not be the advice you want,” Dorian says then. “But knowing you’re a target is better than fumbling about blind. Expecting the trap is the first step in turning it to your advantage.”

She wants to ask just what he thinks the trap will be, when he spares a restless look in Felix’s direction. “In any case, staying in Redcliffe is not in my best interest. Alexius doesn’t know I’m here, and I’d like to keep it that way. But,” he adds, to Ellana, “Whenever you’re ready to deal with him, whatever that entails, I want to be there.”

She can’t tell if it’s a pledge of allegiance or something else entirely, but before she can protest he’s off. “I’ll be in touch! Try not to get yourself killed, Felix.”

“There are worse things than dying, Dorian,” Felix counters, and with those last, oddly macabre words, turns to walk in the opposite direction.

Ellana watches them go, dread cresting like a wave within her. The events of the night seem a blur; too many impressions, too many things suddenly revolving around  _her_. Indentured mages. Time magic. An Inquisition in Haven. Wasn’t this just the sort of attention and responsibility she’d tried to escape?

“What did we just agree to, exactly?”

Solas meets her bewildered look with calm. “I am afraid this will not be as simple as you had hoped.”

A sigh falls, carrying the tension currently sitting in her shoulders. “I wasn’t expecting time magic.”

“One rarely does.”

Despite the mood, Ellana laughs softly. “True.” She considers the doors, and the scorch marks in the wood. That there are worse things to come is a surety that sits with surprising calm. “Do you think we should stay?”

He looks at her then, and she hopes some of her desperation transfers with her question. He’s seemed strangely intent on pushing her to make every decision so far, but now her life is suddenly on the line. The tapestry frays, the threads slipping between her fingers.

“I think leaving would not be in the best interest of the village. Or the free mages,” he says. Then his expression softens. “However, you appear to be what he truly wants. I would not endanger you by suggesting we stay, no matter how intrigued I am by his magic.”

Her breath catches quite despite herself, but Solas doesn’t seem to think he’s said anything to warrant that kind of reaction. She tries to keep her hands at her sides, so as not to fiddle with her hair.

“I, uh – see your point,” she says instead, clearing her throat. “But I’d rather not run from this. Not if he’d endanger them for my sake.”

Solas nods. “Then we will be on our guard.”

He waits for her to start moving, and she does only with a slight hesitance to her step. The thought of the warm room at the inn seems less appealing now, with the possibility that there might be someone waiting for them.

She needs something to take her mind off Alexius.

“Did you know about the Inquisition?” she asks, as they make their way outside. With every step she takes now, she wonders if anyone is watching.

If her worries are shared, Solas gives no indication. “I merely suspected they were gathering forces for something. However, it seems unlikely I would have been included, had I inquired.”

Ellana only nods, remembering the distrust that had first met her upon waking in the holding cell. But the Seeker had allowed her a weapon, and to make the decision of whether or not to take the mountain pass. Had she intended for Ellana to be part of the Inquisition in some way? Or would she have been nothing more than a tool, no more useful than a soldier’s sword, or a mage’s staff? To be put away when the deed was done?

It’s hard to reconcile the dark thought with the woman who’d walked the mountain path with her, heedless of the fate that might await them at the top. Cassandra had stood behind her when she’d reached towards the rift, and born her weight when her knees had buckled from the pressure.

As though knowing where her thoughts have gone, despite the fact that she’s given no hint of any lingering concern for those she’d left behind, Solas offers an assuring smile. “Whatever is going on in Haven, I am sure Cassandra has it under control.”

Another nod, because she can’t find her words, and though there’s an ill feeling attached to the thought, she buries it beneath the rest of her troubles, along with a mantra that she hopes will keep her on the path she’s set out on, and stop her from looking back.

_Not my problem. Not my problem. Not my problem._

 

* * *

 

The gentle snowfall feels at odds with the turmoil within her, and though part of her realizes she shouldn’t let something so insignificant as a little snow affect her mood, it’s hard to focus past the irritation that swells with every swing of her sword.

The  _clang_  rings out across the makeshift practice yard, resounding like a drum in her ears as she pulls her sword-arm back, forcing her breath through her nose.

“If you’re going to put all your weight behind it, at least give me a warning,” Cullen says, a small smile offered from over the top of his shield. “I thought we were sparring, not duelling for honour.”

Cassandra huffs. “The training dummies do not complain half as much.”

He laughs. “I imagine they’re too scared to say anything.”

She glares, lips pressing down to stifle the small smile. It’s almost hard to contain her ire, when those around her don’t seem very inclined to feed the flames. But sparring – helps, if only as an outlet for her emotions. And with the state of things since officially forming the Inquisition, there’s been no end to them. Anger being the most prominent.

She’s about to suggest another round, when a voice calls towards them from the steps to the village. “Commander! Seeker Pentaghast!”

A red-cheeked, panting runner jogs towards them, a note caught awkwardly between his gloved fingers. “A missive from Sister Leliana! About the elf. Er, both of them. There’s been–”

She’s ripping it from his hands before he’s even finished speaking, eyes poring over the words in Leliana’s familiar scrawl.

Cullen appears at her elbow, good humour gone now, to be replaced with something more serious. “What does it say?”

“Two elves were reported entering Redcliffe village, three days ago. It says one of them closed a rift at the village gate.”

“Redcliffe? Perhaps they were looking to cross the lake.”

The note sits between slack fingers, a bitter taste on her tongue. Cullen might be right, and they’d gone to Redcliffe out of necessity, or to seek passage across the water. Or perhaps it was something else that led them there. Providence. The Maker.

But something – something she can’t quite put her finger on, but that leaves dread curling its cold grip around her spine – presents another alternative before her. It’s a thought, a hunch, and with the already precarious state of things, it bodes nothing good for their fledgling organization. There is something else in Redcliffe that could pose a greater threat to Thedas than the elf’s escape from her divine duty.

 _With her as their figurehead, the mage rebellion will truly spiral out of control._ _Maker, is this part of your plan?_

“That,” she says, lifting her eyes to look at Cullen, voice steel-hard and sharp though she feels nothing of the sort. Only tired, and more uncertain of her path than she’s ever been. “Or they are trying to get into contact with the mages.”

“Er, about that.”

She turns to the runner, keeping a careful distance, no doubt on account of the sword at her hip, and her notorious temper. “What?” 

He swallows. “There’s more.”

Cassandra shares a look with Cullen, before turning her attention back to the runner. “Do I even want to know?”

He doesn’t hand her a note now, and seems reluctant to relate the news. “King Alistair has exiled the mages from Ferelden. On account of an -- ah, disagreement with the Arl. As I understood it.”

“Exiled the mages?” She must have heard wrong. “All of them?”

The runner nods. “Something happened at the castle. Sister Leliana has sent word to His Majesty to inquire, but she thinks it might have something to do with the elf. The Herald, that is.”

The title feels like an insult, waved in her face, though he doesn’t intend it to be, Cassandra knows.

Cullen tries for a smile, proffering his shield, and it’s hard to tell if it’s an offering, or if he’s simply getting into a defensive position for his own safety, before he asks, “One more round?”

“Er,” the runner speaks up softly, sensing her swiftly declining mood, and looking like he’d rather be anywhere else. “There’s...more.”

The urge find somewhere remote to scream her head off is strong, but reeling in her frustration, Cassandra’s voice is level when she speaks. “Tell me it’s good news.”

But she knows already by the look on his face what awaits.

He hands her another note. “This came with one of Sister Leliana’s crows an hour ago, from our scouts in the Hinterlands. It’s not signed.”

Something about the way he says it makes her hesitate, but she unrolls the small piece of parchment with care, apprehension building even before she reads the words.

“Bad news?” Cullen asks quietly.

“’I lost her’,” she reads, heart falling with the words. She doesn’t need a signature to know who’d penned the note, the elegant hand telling enough.

He frowns. “Solas?”

Cassandra doesn’t answer, the paper crumpling between clenched fingers. It’s hard to tell if what’s building in her chest is fury or grief, but she feels, inexplicably, like laughing.

She makes note of Cullen nodding to the runner to take his leave, but he doesn’t follow suit. And he doesn’t ask any further questions, no doubt aware that she doesn’t have any answers to give. Uncurling her fingers, she makes to look at the note again. No explanation. No word that he’d return. Nothing that tells her if ‘lost’ implies death, or something else. _Something worse._

“What happened at that castle?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the slightly wonky timeline. It jumps a bit back and forth, but all will be explained.


End file.
